There is a thread that ties the sparrow
to the hair on the pillow in the morning;
There is a straight line from “My thoughts
are not your thoughts,” through,
“There are more things …, Horatio,
than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
There is some cold comfort in the promise
that tomorrow will bring new worries;
at least no one sugar-coats the tragedy
of salvation; 

somewhere in the midst of all
even sea monsters sport 
and play for the entertainment of God
and the bemused, slightly horrified wonder
of we who drift, moored to the flotsam 
left by the winged one who brooded over water at our beginning.